James Joyce condensed everything in this collection of stories. His talent. His capacity to sketch the human soul. His ability to convey the essence of a certain period. His penchant for historical accuracy. His sharp observations on psychology. His unique dialogue and witty conversations. His endeavour to present even the morbid side of life. His hidden humour. His sense of justice. His love of everything Irish. His flicker of hope hidden in the midst of despair and poverty. His genius. His humanity. His soul...

This book is a series of short stories observing lives in Dublin. It is a simple and straight forward read.

I came to this book having never read Joyce before and this time out only for the purposes of revision for exams. I know that many people regard this book extremely highly but I found it to be rather dull. The stories were to me a collection of grey, uneventful meanderings that left me absolutely cold. I have given it 3 stars purely because I cannot bring myself to mark it lower given the number of people who loved it.

A series of short stories, but not satisfying like a Guy de Maupassant. Apart from the last chapter, they are more observational of lives in Dublin than « stories ». Very little character development or purpose in the stories.